


Strange Courting Rituals of Reformed Hydra Assassins

by river_soul



Series: Strange Courting Rituals of Reformed Hydra Assassins [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky creeps on the Reader but it’s mostly harmless, F/M, Mostly Fluff, Reader has a questionable reaction to being stalked, Stalker!Bucky, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: Based on the amazing prompt from @sagechanoafterdark. Bucky leaves encouraging notes and presents for the depressed reader to brighten her day except everything is written in his creepy serial killer handwriting. Her coworkers are alarmed by the notes like girl this is straight out of a criminal minds episode but Reader thinks it’s sweet.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Strange Courting Rituals of Reformed Hydra Assassins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110050
Comments: 32
Kudos: 204





	1. Part 1 - The Reader

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first reader insert fic and my first fic after a five year hiatus. Feedback is appreciated! Many thanks to @daddys-minty-princess for her beta work!

The first note arrives Tuesday morning after your disastrous Monday afternoon meeting that left you in tears. It’s written on one of your own post-it notes, a brightly colored set you ordered specially from Etsy. The slanted handwriting is unfamiliar but the words make you smile.

_ You need to have a bad day once in a while, otherwise, you’ll never know what a good day feels like. Keep your head up, you’re doing great.  _

You know the note is probably just well meaning words of encouragement from one of your coworkers but it makes you feel special, makes you feel  _ seen _ . As the day wears on you find your eyes drifting over to the note again and again, letting it reassure you and quiet the nagging voice that says you’re not enough. 

The next morning you tape the note to your monitor, fingers lingering on the edges of the note that have started to curl up.

\--

More notes come over the next few weeks. At first you’re not entirely sure what to make of them. They’re simple compliments about how well you do your job or encouraging quotes like the first one you received. Sometimes they come on napkins or torn pieces of paper but mostly they’re written on your post-it notes. None of them are ever signed but the handwriting is the same on each of them.

The compliments evolve over the coming weeks, sweet comments about the colorful dresses you wear or the carefully set curls you take time to create on the days you have important meetings. It should feel creepy, invasive even, but there is something respectful in the phrasing the note writer uses. They never make you feel that awful rush of shame that some men do when they compliment your body. 

Later the notes start coming with little presents. It’s never food or flowers, but small things, cute office supplies or practical things for work. Other times it’s things to pamper yourself with, fancy face masks with instructions written entirely in Korean or fancy bath bombs. Those always seem to come on the Friday after a stressful week of work.

You like the gifts, whoever sends them knows you well but it’s the notes that make you feel special. They are what lifts you when you start to spiral down or your anxiety gets the better of you on your bad days. Sometimes you don’t even need to reread the words to make you feel calm and centered. The act of running your hands over the writing on the notes and feeling the crinkle of the paper is enough. 

\--

You don’t tell anyone about the notes, but your coworker, Julia, finds them eventually. You got careless and left the stack of notes beside your keyboard. She’s at your desk when you return from lunch, thumbing through the notes with a frown on her face, pausing occasionally to squint or sigh at a particular one. She doesn’t say anything at first and you bite the inside of your cheek as you feel a wave of embarrassment sweep over you. 

“So….this is creepy,” Julia says finally. “You know that right? This is how half the episodes of Criminal Minds start out before they find the girl chained to a radiator or dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I think the notes are sweet,” you argue.

“Of course you do. You’re crazy,” Julia mutters affectionately, pinching the bridge of her nose as she breathes out harshly. Her face softens after a moment and you know she means well. She’s your friend, the only one you spend time with outside the compound. It’s not exactly easy to make friends in a building full of superheroes and federal agents. Julia is like you, one of the very few civilian contractors. 

“If the notes get creepy...creepier,” she amends quickly, “you’ll tell me, right?”

“Yes, mom,” you say with a laugh, taking back the notes and shuffling them back into a neat pile before you place them in your top drawer.

It’s probably best she doesn’t know about the presents or the other notes you keep at home, the ones that make you blush and sigh. Those you keep taped to your bathroom mirror.

\---

It’s Julia’s idea to start an Instagram account about your notes and what she refers to as the serial killer handwriting on them.

You know she’s still not entirely happy about the situation, especially not after she found that bottle of lotion on your desk after New Year’s. It had come with a cute stack of post-it notes shaped like cookies and a note that made you smile for days.

_ This lotion smells just like your Christmas cookies last year. I hope you had a good holiday. _

You’re taking it as a positive sign that she’s not asking you to turn the notes into the head of security anymore. She still frowns at you through the glass of your office window on the mornings you find a new note but you consider it progress. 

\--

It’s Taco Tuesday and you’re both four margaritas deep at the only Mexican eatery close to the compound when Julia brings up the idea of the Instagram account again. 

You know it’s irresponsible to get drunk on a weeknight but today had been especially hellish. On a good day the Avengers create a lot of paperwork but it turns out destroying a historic building in middle America creates even more. You think about the half finished paperwork sitting on your desk and all the forms you need to file with legal but by the time Julia comes back with two tequila shots and lime wedges in her mouth, it’s hard to remember your concerns.

“I don’t know if Instagram is a good idea,” you tell her after you take the shot, eyes watering as the burning sensation travels down your throat. “The notes are sweet and I don’t want them to think we’re making fun of their kindness.” 

You also feel a little protective of the notes and the person who sends them to you. You don’t like the idea of sharing them with anyone else.

Julia huffs at you as she throws her own shot back. 

“You’re too nice and uh, it’s kinda too late,” she says with a grin. “I might have already uploaded some of the notes. Also the user name I picked is like, fucking amazing. I’m a genius.”

Before you can react, she shoves her phone towards you and you spot the familiar handwriting.

“The user name is Positively_Serial.” She says and then cackles loudly enough to have you glancing around the restaurant in embarrassment.

You freeze when you realize half the Avengers are seated a few tables away. You’ve seen most of them in passing and met Sam Wilson twice when he dropped off paperwork to your office but this is something different. 

It’s more than a little terrifying to have the full attention of the Black Widow focused on you and worse, you realize Captain America is frowning at your friend. Beside him is another man with dark brown hair that curls around his jaw with eyes blue enough that you feel your face heating up when you meet his gaze.

“Do you get it?” Julia asks, oblivious to your distress. “Because your note writer sends you positive messages, he’s soooo positive...positively a serial killer!” 

“Oh my God,” you hiss at Julia, knocking into the table as you stand up. “Oh my God, you said a bad word and Captain America  _ heard _ you. We are leaving right now and when we get home you’re going to delete that Instagram account.”

Standing so abruptly leaves your head swimming, but you drag Julia with you and make your way unsteadily to the register. When it is her turn to pay, you chance a look back at the table full of Avengers, thankful to find nearly everyone engrossed in conversation except the man with the blue eyes. When you meet his gaze again he gives you a soft, hesitant smile and something about it makes that tight knot of embarrassment in your chest dissolve.

Before you can think too much about him Julia is pulling you outside to the waiting Uber.

\--

When you come in the next morning there is a bottle of vitamin water, two pain pills and a warm breakfast sandwich waiting for you. Despite the pounding in your head and how gross your body feels you smile. 

_ Hope this helps with the hangover. Don’t be too hard on yourself - you deserve to have fun.  _

Reading the words helps extinguish the lingering embers of guilt and shame about what happened last night. It is ok to have fun and getting drunk on Tuesday doesn’t make you a terrible person. At the least your letter writer doesn’t seem to think so.

When Julia stops outside your office ten minutes later you’re halfway through eating. She looks longingly at your breakfast sandwich, her face pale and sweaty.

“I’m dying,” she says pitifully as you wave her in and pass along your opened bottle of water. She drinks it down greedily and happily takes the rest of your sandwich when you hand it to her. 

“Ugh, I don't even care that this is probably from creepy note guy,” she says with a happy sigh, slouching down in one of the chairs in your office.

“Do you care that you said fuck in front of Captain America?” You ask, grinning at her horrified expression.


	2. Part 2 - Bucky

Bucky knows Steve would tell him what he’s doing is creepy. Sam would probably call it an unhealthy coping mechanism. Bucky doesn’t even want to know what his therapist would say. 

He doesn’t even mean for it to turn into anything beyond the first note he leaves for you. He tells himself he’d do the same for any dame he found crying in the parking garage, that it’s probably some long-buried need to soothe and fix because the sound of you swallowing down those little sobs is heartbreaking. But he knows the moment he sees your reaction to his note that he’s a liar. The look on your face makes him feel good, like maybe he isn’t as used up and rotten as he feels inside. 

It fills his chest with a strange sense of warmth that stays with him the rest of the day and every time after when he replays the soft smile on your lips and the almost reverent way you’d run your fingers over his message.

–

Bucky knows what he feels for you isn’t appropriate considering he’s never had an actual conversation with you. Not unless he counts the embarrassed apology you’d stammered out after you bumped into him in the cafeteria. At the time he could only stare wide-eyed at you until you sprinted away to your friend in line.

He starts watching for you around the compound after that. It’s passive, non invasive. Probably ok. Later he starts finding excuses to deliver paperwork to any office near yours for a chance to see you but it isn’t until he starts following you when you leave your office that he knows he’s crossing a line. If Steve found out what Bucky was doing he’d give him that worried disappointed look so Bucky’s careful about how he watches you.

Bucky learns a lot about you over the first few weeks. He sees how soft and kind you are with everyone you speak to, even your boss whose harsh voice makes you flinch and draw into yourself. He learns about your sharp sense of humor, the quick way you make your coworkers laugh. It takes him time to see the other side of you, to pick up on the sad, worried way you look when you think no one is looking. After that he starts to notice little things like the anxious way you bite your nails when you concentrate or how you work your thumb into the heel of your hand when you speak up in meetings.

–

Natasha is the first to catch him.

Bucky finds her sitting in your office when he’s getting ready to drop off another note and two bottles of the limited edition wine you complained to Julia you couldn’t find anymore.

He knows he should probably feel guilty or even a little ashamed but the first emotion to surface is fear. 

“Are you going to tell her?”

Natasha regards him for one long, painful moment before she finally speaks. “Do you intend her any harm?”

“God, no,” he breathes, horrified at the thought. He couldn’t even find up the courage to go speak to you like a normal, well-adjusted person. Which he is most definitely not. Ok. Maybe he understands why Natasha asks the question.

“I won’t say anything,” she tells him, surprising him with a soft smile. “I may have to speak to Stark about recalibrating the employee psych evals because her reaction to your…. wooing is not exactly a healthy response.”

“It’s not wooing and here’s nothing wrong with her,” Bucky says with a frown. 

“Relax,” she tells him with a dismissive wave as she stands. “I’m not judging. Besides, you’re going to need my help once you start going on missions again.”

–

Bucky appreciates Natasha’s willingness to deliver notes and the occasional present when he can’t and how she doesn’t lecture him about how wrong what he’s doing is. He appreciates her a little less two weeks later when she steals half the cookies you baked him after you found the lotion.

The cookies and note had been a surprise when he stopped by your office after midnight to leave you a small owl figurine he picked on his last mission. It was the first time you’d left him anything. He keeps your note folded up inside the table beside his bed, taking it out on nights when he can’t sleep or he wakes sweaty and terrified from his nightmares. He likes to drag his thumb across the neat lines of your handwriting until his heart slows down in his chest and he can breathe again.

–

It’s easiest to watch you at lunch time when he can blend into the rush of the crowd. Sometimes, if he feels brave enough like he does today, he sits as close enough to hear your voice. Bucky knows you’re stressed about their latest mission. The anxious look on your face when you got the news made him feel guilty even though he wasn’t even there. He’s relieved when he hears you agree to leave work early for margaritas with Julia. You deserve to relax and have fun. 

He’s never followed you home, that’s a line that makes him feel uneasy to cross, but he has a feeling even there you don’t relax much. It makes him think about the bottle of xanax you keep in your office drawer and how you open the bottle, count the pills but never take them.

–

When Bucky suggests getting dinner at the little mexican bar in town Steve gives him such an earnest smile that he almost feels guilty. Bucky pointedly ignores the look Natasha gives him and focuses instead on the hand Sam claps on his back.

“I am so gonna kick your ass at darts Barnes,” he says, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

–

You’re a cute drunk Bucky discovers.

Happy but still somehow quiet even as your friend gets progressively louder. You’re talking about the notes he leaves for you again. Bucky likes the shy way you duck your head when your friend mentions them. He knows you keep most of them stacked neatly in your top desk draw at work but that you’ve taken some home. It makes him wonder if you read them at night like he does with yours. 

–

“You’re so busted man,” Sam says at lunch the next day and Bucky tenses, cold dread washing over his body. 

“Don’t think I didn’t catch you staring at that girl last night,” Sam says with a grin. 

“What girl?” Bucky asks, body relaxing once he realizes Sam isn’t talking about his extracurricular activities.

“That one,” Sam says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where you’re currently sitting. “The one you’re creeping on right now.”

Bucky frowns, ready to object but Sam speaks before he can.

“You should ask her out,” Sam suggests. 

“Yeah,” Natasha says with a grin. “Maybe leave her a note or something.” 

Bucky shoots her an unamused look but she only smirks at him in return. 

“I can’t -,” Bucky starts before Sam cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“Don’t make me send Steve to give you a pep talk about how you’re worthy of love cause I’ll do it man,” Sam threatens. “I’ll make sure he throws in some Catholic guilt and his puppy dog eyes for good measure.” 

“Ok, ok,” Bucky relents, mostly because he wants the conversation to end.

Later in his room he thinks over Sam’s suggestion. Natasha didn’t say anything to him after lunch, but Bucky knows she won’t help him deliver notes forever. At some point he’s going to have to stop or tell you how he feels.

He’s halfway to your office before he realizes he’s made his decision. The note is short, direct, and to the point. He writes it quickly before he can change his mind. That night, for the first time since Bucky left you that initial note four months ago, he goes to bed anxious. 


	3. Part 3 - The Reader

There’s a note waiting for you on your desk Thursday morning. You aren’t expecting one so soon after yesterday and you feel a thrill of anticipation in your stomach when you reach for it.

_Coffee? 2 pm at the Family Bean._

Oh.

You feel hot and cold all at once, a strange mixture of excitement and fear settling in your chest as you read and reread the words. You know immediately that you’re going to meet them, already sitting down at your desk to open your calendar app to move your afternoon meetings to next week. Your boss is gone for the next two days and if anything comes up you know Julia will cover for you. 

You watch her through your office window, a little frown on her face as she speaks to someone on the phone. You’ll have to email her an excuse about a last-minute meeting with legal because you know you’re a poor liar face to face. If Julia figures out what’s going on she’s going to convince you not to go. 

With your schedule cleared and an excuse written to Julia you turn your attention to yourself, suddenly wishing you made more of an effort with your hair or chosen a different, less frumpy dress this morning. Did you pluck your eyebrows recently? You’re pretty sure you brushed your teeth this morning. The rush of anxiety that rises inside as you mentally catalog everything that’s wrong with how you look today makes you feel ill.

You have to force yourself to take a deep breath, in through your nose and then out again. This is stupid. Whoever writes the notes cares about you and they’ll see beyond all the silly little details you’re overthinking. Right now all you need to focus on is getting through the rest of your day. 

Glancing up at the clock you sigh, it’s going to be a long wait for 2 pm.

\--

At 1:45 you check your makeup and hair in the ladies bathroom. You pass a shaky hand over your blue dress to smooth out any wrinkles before heading towards the coffee shop in the common area. You’re halfway there before you realize you have no idea who you’re looking for. It leaves you hovering awkwardly at the entrance of the small cafe, wringing your hands together as you scan the occupied tables.

It doesn’t take you long to find the only person sitting by themselves. His face is half hidden by his chin-length brown hair and you watch the nervous way his fingers move over his coffee mug and how he clenches and unclenches the gloved hand in his lap. As if he can feel your eyes on him he turns to face you. 

You’re unprepared for how handsome he is, the startling pale blue of his eyes. There’s a niggling sense of familiarity at the back of your brain but you forget about it when he stands to greet you. He’s tall, body solid and broad but he hunches his shoulders forward like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, less imposing.

“Hi,” you say, voice a little breathless as you step towards him.

“Hey,” he returns and there’s something sweet about the uncertain set of his brow when you smile at him. He doesn’t sit down again until you do and when he does he looks stiff, his eyes darting between the entrance and the other people in the cafe before settling back on you.

“I got you an earl grey,” he says and you notice the cup in front of you for the first time. 

“It’s my favorite,” you tell him with a smile, cradling the mug between your hands as you breathe in the smell of bergamot and lavender that’s nearly overpowered by the rich scent of fresh coffee. “But I bet you already knew that.”

“Yeah,” he says with a little laugh. You watch the way he rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head, suddenly looking shy. “It’s not, uh, creepy? The whole...note thing,” he asks after a moment. 

“Not to me,” you tell him and he rewards you with a real smile, relaxing into his chair a little. It’s a nice smile you think, looking at his perfectly straight white teeth and the pale pink of his lips. You don’t notice you've been staring too long until he clears his throat and your eyes snap up to meet his. 

“I just realized I don’t even know your name,” you tell him, trying to push down your embarrassment at being caught looking at his mouth. 

“Bucky.” He looks tense when he says his name and you can see that hesitant look is back in his eyes again. 

“Bucky?” You ask, frowning a little as something about his name brings back the same sense of familiarity you felt when you first saw him. He shifts, looking uncomfortable the longer you watch him. His movements reveal a gap between the glove on his hand and the sleeve of his shirt. You see the flash of silver at his wrist before he pulls his hand back under the table. 

Oh. Your eyebrows draw together in surprise as you feel your mouth part in shock.

“You know who I am now?”

It’s phrased as a question but you know it’s more of a statement. 

The Winter Soldier. 

It was all the compound could talk about when the news broke that he was joining the Avengers early last year. You hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time since you didn’t work with the Avengers personally. You were so new at your job then, determined to prove your worth and make a good impression on your boss even if it meant working 80 hour weeks. 

You know his story though, everyone in the world did after Captain America testified before Congress two years ago. The rational part of you knows you should be scared of him. A small part of you is scared. He’s killed people, done terrible things, but you know that’s not all he is - the pile of notes hidden in your desk drawer and a collection of thoughtful gifts tell you as much. 

You don't realize you’ve been quiet for too long until Bucky stands abruptly, ready to leave. 

“Wait,” you say, wincing at how loud your voice sounds in the quiet cafe. The couple sitting at the table by the counter turn to look at you and you can see both baristas have stopped to stare too. “Please don’t go. Stay,” you ask, quieter this time.

Bucky hesitates and for a moment you think he’s going to leave but then he sits back down. You watch the tendon in his neck jump as he clenches his jaw and looks away. 

“It doesn’t change how I feel. I’m not afraid.” 

“You should be,” he says and you’re taken back by the self-loathing you see in his eyes.

You’re not sure what to say or how to soothe the awful tension you see settling over him as he stares down at the table. 

“Can you look at me?” you ask him after a moment, voice soft. 

When he meets your gaze a second later everything about him, even his eyes, is a blank mask. 

“I know what they say about you, about what you were made to do,” you start awkwardly, praying you’re not going to hurt his feelings or offend him with poorly chosen words. “But I don’t see that person when I look at you. I see someone who could tell I was struggling, that I was in pain and reached out to help,” you tell him, wanting him to understand just what his notes mean to you, how special and wanted they make you feel. 

“No one has ever done that for me before,” you admit. 

This isn’t something you talk about with anyone else, not even your parents or Julia. You hate the way people look at you once they find out about the real you, the overwhelming sadness and anxiety you try to hide. You can feel it even now, a terrible tightness in your chest rising to the surface, crawling up your throat as your emotions overwhelm you. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel Bucky’s hand on your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb brushing away your tears. Your eyes close on instinct and draw in a shaky breath. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, soaking up the feeling of his warm hand on your skin, but when you open your eyes again the tightness in your chest is gone and Bucky’s clear blue eyes are calm. 

\--

He walks you back to your office after, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat from his body but not so close that he crowds you. Neither of you talk but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to bolt again so you take that as a good sign. 

He turns to face you when you reach your office.

“Can I cook you dinner?” 

The directness of his question surprises you a little, but you don’t hesitate to say yes. You like the way he looks when he smiles and you want to make him do it again.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

You feel your heart flutter in your chest at the way his lips quirk up into a half-smile. 

“I’ll pick you up at your office at 6.”

\--

It takes less than 30 seconds after Bucky leaves for Julia to appear at your office door, her eyes wide. 

“Was that the Winter Soldier?” 

“He has a name,” you tell her, shuffling a stack of papers together on your desk to avoid making eye contact with her. You know she probably has a thousand questions and normally you’d be happy to answer them all, but you don’t want to talk to her about this. You feel strangely protective of Bucky and the fragile, tenuous thing that’s developing between you two. 

Julias watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed before her expression gives way to realization. “Oh my god. He’s the guy who's sending you those notes, isn’t he? Jesus, I _told_ you he was a serial killer!”

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss, pulling her inside your office, the door rattling when you shut it harder than you intend to. “Technically he was an assassin, not a serial killer. He’s an Avenger now.”

“Oh, of course, a reformed Hydra assassin is much better than a serial killer,” she argues with an eye roll. 

You know Julia’s gearing up to give you a lecture, to tell you all the reasons why this is a bad idea. You don't want to hear it. 

“Do you really want to play bad boyfriend bingo with me, Julia?” you ask with a raised brow. Your best chance to derail her is to distract her and you’ve known Julia long enough to witness some truly spectacularly bad decisions on her part when it comes to men. “Do you want to talk about Agent Jackass, the FBI agent with a wandering eye?” 

“I didn’t know he was married!”

“Or should we talk about Cody, the 20-year-old intern?” you ask her with a pointed look. 

“Ok, ok,” Julia says, hands raised in defeat as she huffs out a sigh. She works her jaw, grinding her teeth together. You know she’s struggling to hold back what she wants to say. 

“It was just coffee,” you lie. "It doesn’t mean anything.”

The look on her face says she doesn’t really believe you, but you're thankful when she lets the subject drop after an awkward minute of judgemental silence. 

\--

Bucky shows up at your office at exactly 5:59 on Friday, dragging his knuckles across the wood of your door to catch your attention. He looks different, hair pulled back into a low bun in a way that shows off the sharp cut of his jawline. He’s dressed nicer than yesterday too you realize, wearing a black collared shirt that’s tucked into a pair of dark jeans. He wears a glove on his left hand.

“Ready?” he asks, taking a chance to look around your empty office. Everyone else left hours earlier to start their weekend, a fact you were thankful for because it allowed you to get ready in the bathroom alone. You kept your makeup simple but picked the burgundy dress he complimented you on in one of his notes. 

You walk together in silence, passing through unfamiliar hallways and doors until you reach the residential section of the compound. His apartment is not what you expect. It looks like it belongs in a magazine spread somewhere, decorated in soft grey and blue undertones with expensive-looking furniture. You know immediately it was decorated by someone else. It’s too pretty to be depressing but you can’t help but notice it’s completely void of any personal touches. It’s nothing like your own homey apartment that’s filled with mismatched furniture and more books and knick-knacks than one person needs.

It makes you sad to think of him here all alone. 

“I made lasagna, I hope that’s ok.”

“It sounds great,” you tell him with a smile as you pull a bottle of red wine out of your bag and set it on the marble countertop. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed,” you admit. The wine was more than you’d spend on yourself but wanted something nice, something special. 

Bucky uncorks the bottle for you but he only pulls down one wine glass. 

“You don’t like wine?” 

“I, uh, I don’t drink,” he tells you, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that you’re starting to realize means he’s uncomfortable. “I mean, I’m not supposed to. They have me on some new meds,” he trails off with a frown as he pushes the glass of wine towards you.

“I understand,” you tell him quickly. His confession makes you think about the pills your therapist gave you in grad school when your anxiety got so bad you couldn't get through the day without a panic attack. You never told anyone about that, not even your boyfriend at the time. You were too ashamed. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything else before he turns around and starts pulling plates and cups down from the cabinets. 

You take a sip of wine and let your gaze wander over him, looking at him in a way you don’t feel comfortable doing when he’s watching you. He looks different from the man you remember in the history books but he’s still handsome, even more so now with his long hair you think. 

When he bends down to pull a large dish from the oven your eyes fall to his thick thighs and the way they seem to strain the fabric of his jeans. The sight makes something in your stomach tighten pleasantly, a warmth spreading down your back that has your breath coming out a little unsteady. You don’t remember the last time you felt that little thrill of excitement when looking at a man that wasn’t immediately tamped down by your anxiety and doubts. 

You don’t have long to linger on your thoughts before Bucky invites you to the table, pulling out a chair for you to sit in. You settle your napkin on your lap and prepare to take your first bite of the lasagne when you notice Bucky is watching you carefully, waiting for your reaction.

“It’s delicious,” you say after you finish chewing, a little surprised by how good it tastes. You like the way the little furrow between his brow smoothes out after you speak and his shoulders relax a fraction before he turns his attention to his own plate. 

\--

Bucky won’t let you help clean up after dinner, guiding you to sit on the couch instead. When you try to protest he only pours you another glass of wine and lays a firm hand on your shoulder. 

Watching him move through the kitchen with ease you think he seems more relaxed now, especially compared to when you sat down for dinner. He hadn’t spoken much beyond the short, clipped answers he gave in response to the questions you asked. It was only after your second glass of wine when you felt your own body loosen and your nervous chatter slow that he started talking. He told you about the cooking classes he was taking at the suggestion of his therapist and shared funny stories about Sam and Steve. He even laughed, a low masculine sound that you liked.

You aren’t sure where the rest of the evening is going. Would he walk you back to your car after this or invite you to stay longer? You know what you want to happen and it makes you think about what it would be like to kiss him on the couch, to have him hold you in his arms. Would he be shy like he was in the cafe or bold like his notes? 

“Everything ok?”

You jump a little at the sound of his voice, too caught up in your thoughts to notice he’s standing right in front of you. 

Your face feels hot. 

Maybe you should slow down on the wine.


	4. Part 4 - Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finished! I am excited that I completed my first multi-chapter fic! Thank you for coming on this journey with me. Feedback is always appreciated! ❤️ My asks are open on tumblr so please some say hi!

The night before Bucky asks you out Natasha shows up unannounced at his apartment to give him an unsolicited crash course in modern dating like taking a dame to dinner and a picture wasn’t a concept that existed in the ’40s. He knows she means well but that doesn’t make him any less irritated. **  
**

“A home-cooked meal is a great date idea,” she says with a smile. Bucky can read the concern in her eyes. He never leaves the compound without Steve or Sam and she doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to go with you. Too many stressors, too many variables. Bucky knows deep down she’s probably right but that doesn’t stop him from wanting your first date to be special. A woman like you deserves something more, a night on the town with flowers and a nice dinner. 

Bucky’s memories from before may be hazy, but he remembers enough to know his ma would take him by the ear for considering the idea. His ma’s not here anymore though and when Bucky picks you up at your office, anxiety prickling at the thought of unseen eyes on him, he knows Natasha’s right.

He’ll never tell her that though. She’s smug enough about the whole situation as it is.

–

Bucky doesn’t recognize the movie you pick, not that there are many he would these days, but by the way your body relaxes into the couch as the story unfolds he knows it’s familiar to you. An old favorite maybe. He watches as you slip off your black flats and curl your legs underneath you. Your toes are close enough to his leg that he only needs to shift a little and he’d be touching you. 

Bucky’s good at reading people, something he learned long before Hydra got their hands on him. It’s only become sharper over the years so he knows what he saw when he interrupted your quiet contemplation earlier. The quick flash of desire and the embarrassment that followed. It should make this easier, knowing that you want him too, but Bucky doesn’t even remember the last time he touched someone without the intention of violence. 

The man he was before wouldn’t hesitate to sleep with you, but the Bucky he is now knows it’s more than having a woman underneath him and finding pleasure in her body. He needs something different, something more. He wants you to draw your hand down his back with an easy smile when you brush past him or stroke your fingers against his when your hands meet. That easy sort of intimacy he doesn’t remember experiencing but surely must have. 

Touch starved. 

That was what his therapist called it. The basic human need for skin to skin contact, but Bucky knows he’s lying to himself if he thinks that’s all he wants from you. No, he knows exactly what he wants. He’s thought of it before, and late at night when he’s desperate enough to take himself in hand, he’s imagined it too.

–

The sound of your laughter draws Bucky out of his thoughts. When he looks at you, so relaxed and open, he realizes how tightly he’s holding himself beside you. He forces himself to close his eyes and count his breaths in and out before dropping his shoulders to lean back into the couch. Another breath in and out and then he’s widening his legs just enough to feel your toes press against his thigh. 

Bucky watches for your reaction through the corner of his eye. You don’t look at him but he hears your heartbeat pick up and sees your mouth part slightly. His gaze drops to your toes, painted bright pink before he trails his eyes over the swell of your ankle and up your legs. He wonders what you’d do if he laid his hand on the curve of your calf or drew your feet into his lap. He imagines the feel of your skin, smooth and soft under his hand. 

“It’s ok to touch me.” 

You almost look surprised by your own suggestion, cheeks flush and eyes bright, when he turns to face you. Bucky half expects you to look away or stammer out an apology but seconds pass and all you do is watch him. For as calm as you seem, Bucky hears how fast and erratic your heart is beating and sees the small tremor in your jaw. 

The desire to soothe you is so strong he doesn’t even realize he’s leaning forward to take the wine glass from your hands until he sets it on the coffee table beside you. He’s close enough to you now that he can feel the warmth of your breath fan across his face and smell the lingering sweetness of whatever shampoo you use. Beneath him you shift, drawing your body under his. An invitation. 

Leather creaks in protest when Bucky grips the back of the couch with his left hand and moves forward, settling himself between the cradle of your thighs. His flesh hand falls to your neck, tracing the delicate line of your throat. He can feel your pulse thundering below his fingers but there is no fear in your eyes. He sees only trust and desire as he presses his thumb under your jaw to tilt your mouth up towards his. 

It’s the sweetest kind of torture he thinks, feeling your body rise up to press against his when your lips finally meet. The needy, wanting sound you make in the back of your throat when he deepens the kiss makes him press harder into you. Even through his jeans, he can feel just how warm you are and he knows if he were to touch you he’d find you slick and wet. 

He pulls back to ask if he can feel you like he’s been dreaming of when he sees just how wrecked you look. Your pupils are blown wide, lips and chin red from his mouth and beard. Bucky knows he should pull away from you now, stop this before it goes any further if he has any hope of taking it slow and treating you like you deserve. But then you sigh his name, low and soft like a song, and he knows he won’t stop, not until he’s given you everything, anything you’d ever ask of him. 

Neither of you speak when he pulls you up from the couch, both afraid of breaking the spell you’ve cast together and letting the world back in. 

In his bedroom he undresses you carefully, fingers and lips sweeping over each new inch of exposed skin until you’re bare before him. Bucky knows he must have done this with other women before but with you, it feels like the first time all over again. He lets you help him out of his clothes, hearing the moment you see the jumbled mess of scars where the skin of his shoulder meets metal. Your sharp intake of breath is deafening in the quiet of the room, and Bucky closes his eyes, too afraid of what he’ll see in yours. 

“It’s ok,” you whisper, lips dragging against the raised and puckered skin of his shoulder as he feels you kiss along his scars. When he feels your hand curl around the bicep of his metal arm, fingers brushing over the plates, he looks at you again. The utter trust he sees in your eyes overwhelms him in the best way and he surges forward to kiss you hungrily before he can second guess himself. He doesn’t pull away until you’re both on the bed together.

“Tell me what you want sweetheart.” 

“I want you. Only you.” 

Heat curls in Bucky’s belly at your answer, a white-hot desire that drives him to find the most intimate part of you. He takes his time to learn your body, using his fingers and mouth to make you fall apart underneath him over and over again. He loves the broken, needy sounds he pulls from you and the shameless way your hips rise up to meet his mouth, hands fisting in his hair. Bucky’s aching, half-mad with want but he thinks he could stay like this forever, surrounded by the wet heat of you.

“Please,” you beg.

He feels your hands on his shoulders, urging him up until he settles his body over yours. 

“Bucky.”

The sound of his name on your lips, a breathless whisper, is all he needs to push inside you with a gasp. The feel of you, tight and hot around him, makes everything else fall away. It’s almost too much, the sensations overwhelming him until he feels your hands on his face, grounding him to you and this moment. You urge him to move with soft kisses and he finds an easy rhythm that leaves you gasping and trembling, hands grabbing the bed sheets.

He slips a hand between your bodies, brushing over the sweat-soaked skin of your stomach to find that sweet bundle of flesh that has you sobbing into his mouth. He watches your face when you come, head tossed back, throat work down the rhythm of his name. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look, how he never wants this to end but things are spinning fast and there is no language here, only a symphony of wordless noises as he climbs higher and higher. He buries his face in your neck as he comes and feels his body throb in tune with yours. 

–

When Bucky wakes in the morning the fear and uncertainty that’s lived under his skin is gone. He knows those feelings will return again, he’ll never really be able to escape them but for now, he savors the sense of peace and calm threading through him. Bucky knows there will be more to discuss later, you’re both still the same people you were yesterday despite the shift he feels inside. Whatever it is you’re building together will take work and that thought terrifies him as much as it thrills him. 

It’s a feeling he holds tightly to as he savors the way your body feels tucked beside his. He listens to the content hum you make when he runs his hands down your naked back and you wake with a sleepy smile. Looking at you now, sunlight leaking through the blinds to illuminate your face, Bucky thinks he understands a little of what Sam’s been trying to tell him all this time.

He can be someone good again, someone deserving of the kindness and love he sees in your eyes. 


End file.
